The Intern
by Riot Mouse
Summary: When Phillip Stryver invited a young British intern to join the ranks of Daggett Industries, he was in for a surprise. A Nolanverse reimagining of a classic DC villain, set just before TDKR... Please Read and Review!


**The Intern**

**By Riot Mouse**

**Disclaimer: I, of course, assume no rights to any of the characters portrayed in this story – nor do I claim to follow the canon. I simply write out of love for the Dark Knight Trilogy. Many thanks to Christopher Nolan and all at DC Comics. I apologise for taking such liberties!**

In the stark light of the screen, her pale skin had a crystalline glow. Her tousled head of jet black hair dipped towards the screen as the typed with quick, sure strokes. She wore her bangs long and swept across the cool expanse of her brow, peering intently through thick, round horn-rimmed frames. From his vantage point in the doorway of the office, Phillip Stryver took in every detail of her. From her sturdy, stocking clad legs, crossed at the ankles to the crown of her shaggy bob.

His chest tightened with a voyeuristic thrill, as she plucked off her glasses and squeezed her eyes shut; he felt like a thief, stealing this moment of intimate solitude. As she rubbed her temples with short, bitten nails, he felt a twinge of something dark and delicious. Letting his gaze stray to the pale ivory of her throat, past the prim, buttoned collar of her dark shift dress, down to the swell of her chest; he swallowed hard as he thirsted for the sweetness of her soft skin. In his fantasies, she tasted like an ice cold glass of water.

Molly had been a business intern at Daggett Industries for a little under a month.

Stryver had recruited her on a whim; the profile of the Cambridge graduate was the last in the pile to consider for a place in the annual talent intake, but the first to really catch his attention. She was a recent arrival in Gotham and he pictured the sheen of European sophistication, not yet tarnished by the grime of the city. He had impulsively tucked her application into the acceptance pile.

From her very first day, as she had bustled past his office, she had reminded him of a plump, industrious little blackbird amongst the long-limbed swans that glided around the building all day.

From then on, she was always amongst the first into the intern department, wrapped up tightly against the chilly December mornings. Fine flakes of snow clung to her raven hair as she shrugged her shoulders out of her thick, woollen winter coat. Her eyes sparkled with the frost of the morning. She clearly took the subway and walked the last two blocks; her cheeks glowed rosily against a pale complexion and her thick, flat leather brogues were always speckled with sleet.

She had been a surprise, to say the least. Not to mention a great success.

Molly was quiet but confident; efficient and creative. Always a calm presence in the office, she was appreciated by her peers for her kind temperament. Plus, she always had a treat or two in her desk drawer to satisfy her sweet tooth and she was quick and generous to share. She never turned away a workmate in need of a sympathetic ear and a piece of fudge or a pastry.

Now, last thing before the festive holidays, Stryver found her at work long after the rest of the building had left.

Suddenly, her desktop chirruped into life. Long, feathery lashes fluttered open as the noise awoke his silent companion from her reverie. Her countenance sharpened, as if pulled into focus through a lens; he felt a sickly excitement as the soft, dreamy expression dissolved and her dove grey eyes darkened to ink as they met with his own.

"Molly?" Stryver shifted from his position in the doorway and began to move towards her.

Abruptly, she broke away from his gaze. After hitting a few keys, decisively, she leant down behind her desk to retrieve a slim, black case. Pulling out a lipstick, she applied a careful slick of vivid coral orange that popped against the pearly translucence of her skin. She paused a second, before clicking the case closed and tossing it back into her bag. Then, she gave him her eyes again – big, dark pools accentuated by cat-eye flicks. Her expression was soft but inscrutable.

"Do you want anything, Mr Stryver?" Her clipped English rang out in the quiet of the deserted building as she unfurled herself from the desk. She always had a slightly wary look in her eyes when she addressed her superiors. He put it down to a healthy British respect for authority.

At once, multiple scenarios tumbled through Stryver's distracted mind.

He pictured them sharing a snifter of good single malt from his bottom drawer, over which they might laugh the night away about office scandals and corporate politics.

Or following her back to whatever humble little walk-up she inhabited downtown; surprising her on the stoop, a fumbled kiss with winter-chafed lips in the doorway. Pressing her curvy little body up against the brownstone wall.

What a kick it would be to take a suite at the Gotham Grand Hotel. He had always enjoyed their eggs Florentine with a mimosa in the morning. He would give her a night to remember and she would wake up grateful and hungry.

Stryver felt a blush bloom in his cheek and a tightening in his pants. All of a sudden the starch of his immaculately tailored shirt felt scratchy. How desperately he wanted to press his flushed skin against her own; so cool, porcelain and perfect. "No, thank you." It came out like a whisper.

With that, she caught up her cavernous black mulberry bag and the brolly with the wooden parrot's head handle. She stepped away from the desk in her familiar, slightly flat-footed way and past him, out the office door, down the hall and into the elevator.

As he gazed down from the 60th floor, she was a dark speck that soon disappeared into the busy street below. Stryver pulled at his tie and loosed his top button. He could wait, for now. Perhaps the holiday break would help thaw her reserve. She would be back in January and besides, he had a legendary Daggett party to attend.

Molly Cobblepot took a seat on the subway train and fished the chic black cosmetic case from her bag. Slipping it open, she retrieved the memory stick that nestled between the lipstick and a thick, brass knuckle duster. She allowed herself a small smile as she considered how close she had come to being caught; if that arrogant prick had taken a step or two across the threshold where he had lurked, he would surely have recognised his own security clearance data, decoding and streaming across her screen.

A simple command line was all it had taken. She could have written it backwards, blindfolded.

The whoosh of the doors and the clatter of passengers piling into the carriage barely muffled the quack of laughter that escaped The Penguin's lips as, as she sped through the chilly Gotham night towards the narrows.


End file.
